


Belling the Kappa

by EzraTheBlue



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EzraTheBlue/pseuds/EzraTheBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hakkai wants things sometimes. At present, to put limiters on Gojyo and not to tell him that he needs them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belling the Kappa

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after the short chapter released in October 2014. Hakkai's continual failure to tell Gojyo about his demon mark put the idea in my head that maybe Hakkai doesn't want to tell him about it. I also wanted to try writing from Hakkai's point of view, because I rather identify with him.
> 
> Minor spoilers for current events, but nothing huge.
> 
> I had wanted this to be a short one-shot, something different for a change, and while I'm sticking to the one-shot and ignoring all those voices in my head asking "But what happens next?" I've struggled to keep it short. The more I go back to edit it, I just keep picking up on things where I can add more detail, even though I don't think it needs it. I've decided to stop picking at it and just post it.
> 
> Beta read by my SO, who doesn't have an account and whom I sincerely hope never finds this one. Thanks, honey! Because I am trying something radically different from my usual, constructive criticism is more welcome than ever. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: As always, the characters are not mine and I do not profit.

**Belling the Kappa**

I am, first and foremost, a selfish creature. Not a man. A monster. Rotten to the very core, you see. I am dark and cold, small and petty, and above all, horribly, terribly needy. It is this that had led me to my current dilemma. I have fought so hard to keep these flaws under the surface, but with these recent developments, I have come to a breaking point, and there is something that I, in my wanton way, _need._

It's a selfish thing, to ask someone to remain unchanged, to keep them as they are if they wish to change. However, I am not certain this is a change he is aware of, nor one that he actively wants. He cannot feel his own changing, the fires that wrap around his neck and spread their charred-black trails further down his shoulders every time I look. I'm starting to feel sick at the sight of it. He is my best, dearest, closest friend, I wouldn't change him for the world. I don't want him to change into a monster. Is it so wrong to want to protect him? It's not as if I wish to harm him. Rather, I don't think I am doing so, or that I will. But I must do something, you see.

I've noticed the change. Small things. A big of extra aggression with each swing of that glaive. An extra sharpness in that dashing smile, a brighter gleam to his teeth. Maybe a glimpse of bloodlust with each marauder he lays low. I don't think it my imagination; he is less himself than he was. He does not relish in death and destruction, or he didn't. This is not who he is, give no thought to the contrary, this is not Gojyo, or at least less Gojyo than he is supposed to be. I cannot let him lose who he is; in the end, isn't that all he has? If he were to lose himself, I fear I will be lost too.

I'm as afraid to tell him as much as I am to act. You see, this is another factor in my egotistic reasoning, and I admit to being ashamed of it. His humanity has kept him safe, kept him from becoming a monster, but he has spent his life between the two and belonging to neither. What if he would welcome becoming one or the other, just for the sake of belonging? If it's a choice he made, I would respect it, but... but...

He's not in his right mind, if he would choose that. No. Even if it did harm him, the harm to him I would prevent would balance my karma. I am used to the weight of my own actions, this would be but a feather atop of mountain of bone.

I accost Hassan the next time we passed on the pathway between bouts of laundry and preparing meals. “I must speak with Sharak Sanzo, if she has time, or if you can pass her a message, I would be grateful.”

“She's busy, but I can tell her anything you need her to hear.”

I explain, with eyes over my shoulder to the doors at either end of the path all the while: “My limiters- I'm worried that if we face another chaotic scene, I may lose them and be unable to find them. As close as we are to the source of the Minus Wave, I fear that my actions could endanger others if none were able to control me. If Sharak Sanzo could provide a spare set of limiters, I would be incredibly grateful.”

Hassan studies my face for a while, those sharp eyes lingering on my ear. I swallow- I can almost feel him summing me up, wondering if he could subdue me were I to lose control, and I know he couldn't, but it's not my own control I'm worried about. I can handle myself. I intend to keep my limiters on. Gojyo wouldn't bother. Too proud, too cocksure, too much force and bluster to care if he suddenly had more force than he knew what to do with. Finally, Hassan nodded. “I'll pass it on.” He leaves, and my energy leaves me with him. I feel as if I have run a mile.

I saw neither him nor Sharak the rest of the day, not that I expected to. She has a temple to run, he must assist her, and she must still be exhausted from the events of the past few days. I didn't expect a quick reply, though I resolved to receive one. Even if I had to insist on an audience- gauche, perhaps, but necessary. But no, he returned to me that same evening, approaching in the dim kitchen as I assist the junior monks in the clean-up effort, and pushes a tiny package into my hands. “Sharak understands your worries. She would appreciate honesty next time. She thinks that someone else would appreciate it too.” He grins again, pats my shoulder with a strong hand and maybe a little more force than he intended to use, and I close my palm around the limiters.

“Thank you,” is all I can say. Ah, honesty, that lovely little catchphrase of the right-fighter and do-gooder. I'm not interested in what's right and good, and honesty would only jeopardize my plans.

It's a simple plan- put the limiters onto Gojyo without him noticing. He might realize they're there once they're on, but with the little dizzy spells he's been having, I fear that he might be experiencing the effects of full youkai power already, and once his head has cleared, he might listen to sense. As it stands, I'm not sure if he will. Even now, I can see him in the dining hall, red hair ablaze from the glow of the fireplace behind him, card-sharking the refugee humans with that sharp-toothed grin. He might already be a shark among sardines, a wolf among sheep. When I put the limiters on him, he might feel small for a moment, but he'll understand that it's for his own protection. Sharks are feared. Wolves are hunted. I wouldn't dare tell a cat that he needs a bell.

The first time I try is the very next morning, and I begin by reviving the little fire in our room- I run cold, always cold, and considering I am what I am, it makes sense- then throw the blinds open to greet the morning sun over the brilliant snow. Gojyo moans and puts a hand over his face.

“S'too damn early. Five more minutes.”

“Now, now, five minutes will turn into five hours if I let you. Don't you have to relieve Goku of his station sooner or later?” Hands on my hips and a pleasant smile, and Gojyo is on his feet, cursing the day and complaining. I've left him a glass of water, but he passes right over it for his comb and the first cigarette of the day. In nothing but his tank top, I can see the mark clearly through the fall of his hair, and a throw a bathrobe over him. “You'll catch cold.”

“Thanks, mom,” he grunts, but pulls it on and loosely ties the belt around his waist. The collar covers his neck, and that's good enough for me. The hair hanging around it gives me my first idea, and I call after him:

“Don't dry your hair. I'd like to give you a trim.”

Gojyo returns, hair combed out and slick around his face, and he smells so _good_ \- but there's no time for thoughts like that right now. Hakuryu is watching with interest as I pull a stool in on top of the sheet from the bed, and give the seat a welcoming pat. Gojyo drops into the stool with a moan. “Y'know, I kinda like it this long.”

“It's gotten a bit unruly. Let me just even up the ends.” I display the scissors in my hand with a smile, and offer the edge of the blade to show just how sharp they are. He assesses them with a nod, then sits back and shrugs.

“Just the ends.” He puts his hands in his lap, and holds still. He's used to this, as I've done it before, and I've made mistakes before, so he squeezes his eyes shut. I start with the comb, pull it through though he's left no knots. Every time I move his hair, I'm reminded of the mark staring back at me, and have to suppress my anxiety. Then, the scissors. I told him I'd just take a little, but maybe a little more wouldn't hurt. The long hair is lovely, but it must be so hard to care for! He'll thank me later, I'm sure. He usually does. With the bottom of his hair even (and a little shorter- just a little!) I start for the front. His eyes are trembling beneath his eyelids when the scissors come close, but I'm gentle as I trim those wild hairs he never puts back, no matter how much I am tempted to. Right side done. Now for the left, and I set the scissors down onto the pillow. Hakuryu trills, and I lift a finger to my lips- _don't give me away, little one-_ and I withdraw the limiters from my pocket.

Three cuffs, just like mine. Oh, this will be harder than I had initially imagined. Well, perhaps if I can get the first one on, he'll have sense enough to let me put the other two in place. Yes. It has to work. It simply has to.

I close in, my breathing tight, sweat gathering at my brow, and pinch the limiter open. Gojyo's feet are swinging- he's getting impatient! All at once, I close in, and clamp the limiter around his upper ear, and-

“Ow, goddammit!” He jerks out of my reach before I can release my grip, and the limiter is still in my hand when he jumps to his feet and rubs his ear. “What the fuck?!” That crimson gaze is hot on my face. “Watch those fuckin' scissors, willya?” He runs off with a grumble of, “probably fucking bleeding,” and though I lift a hand as if I could halt him, he's gone in a flourish of red and brown and rage. Hakuryu clucks a few times, and I ignore that the noise sounds like a chide and put the limiter away.

So close.

Once he checks himself in the mirror and ensures I did not cut part of his ear off, and I clear the blood from my cheeks, I apologize- of course, I usually do- and he snorts and brushes it off. “It's fine, whatever, no permanent damage.” He allows himself to give me that warm, heartfelt smile, and I feel like the sun is shining for the briefest of moments.

It doesn't wick off all the cold in my bones. When he turns back to the mirror, I can still see the mark on his neck. I withdraw for the moment, but I'm not done yet.

He goes in his direction, and I in mine. There's a great deal of work to be done, and as we cannot move on until Sanzo has healed, Gojyo, Goku, and I have been conscripted in doing it. Nobody else could be spared, and somehow or other, I'm not sure our Sanzo would want anyone but his servants to do such things and see him in this state. Sharak Sanzo has been kind enough to grant that one of us may stay on guard at Sanzo's bedside, though we know the need for it is scant- his condition is stable, my chi healing can take him no further, and there's little concern about him rising up and wandering off just yet. As such, we only check on him during necessary moments, bandage changes or attempts to feed him. Goku spends most of his days out in the yard, but his devotion to Sanzo remains clear in the depths of the night. He has slept on the floor beside him in the two nights since the battle. Gojyo goes to dismiss him so Goku can return to rebuilding everything else that has broken. He doesn't know medicine, but smokes at Sanzo's side as if he could tempt him back to the waking world with nicotine, and tease him with something I will certainly not let him have until he can ruin his health under his own power, thank you very much. I check on him after assisting with breakfast once I've decided Gojyo has poisoned the air around him to a sufficient standard.

“My, my, we really are as much trouble when you're asleep as when you're awake, aren't we?” Goku has left plates and bowls around him, splatters of soft rice porridge on the bedclothes from aborted attempts to feed him. Gojyo has left an overflowing ashtray that I am certain he moved from the cell he and I have been sharing. I clean up- it's another need of mine, taking care of them whether they know it or not- and give him a touch of my chi to reinforce what has been done. There's no more I can do, but it doesn't mean I will cease to try. The burns on his face won't fade any faster, and the bones in his arm will take some time to knit yet, but he trusts my judgment, doesn't he? He said as much, just before we left:

_“I'll leave it to you.”_

It was something like that; the exact words hold no meaning, only the weight he puts on them. With Sanzo, the way he says things means a great deal. I know for a fact he listens to everything we say, though he only responds with the very least he has to. (How very Buddhist of him.) One must really, truly listen to understand his meaning, and while Goku usually misunderstands his way into comprehension and Gojyo steamrolls and draws his own conclusions, I listen. Those words implied trust, didn't they? I know what I'm doing.

“Did you notice too?” I speak softly, as if he can hear me, and unravel the bandages on his arms. The smell doesn't bother me- not really. “Surely, you have. You left me in charge, though, so I'll do what must be done.”

I can't be sure if what he said is what he meant, or what I take it to mean. He's not one for the roundabout approach. He is a speeding bullet, not a creeping vine. But would a bullet solve this? In his eyes- and between Gojyo's- certainly yes, but I don't know if my aim is so true. “You need not worry about Goku, anyway. He's doing quite fine. I imagine you'd be proud to see the initiative he's taken.” I rewrap his arm to my satisfaction, then pack him back under the quilt and tuck a bit of medicine under his tongue. His mouth works on instinct to swallow it, and I find that in tilting his chin back to help him, my hand has slicked over his cheek, smoothing over the ridges where flames licked and kissed and left their mark as sure as a stamp to the heart. “I'll check on you again tomorrow. You can trust me.”

I wonder if he can tell if or when I'm lying. Every once in a while, I have to wonder myself.

Somehow, I have been decided as the domestic of our crew, so while I am given the task of caring for others, a task I rather enjoy anyway, Gojyo has been deemed a strongman, lifting lumber, moving stone, sweating even in the chill of the thin mountain air. He's quite lucky that we have medicine to deal with the altitude sickness, or I fear he'd struggle to keep up, and wouldn't that bruise his manly pride! Imagine, the “strongest in the world” unable to keep up with the pot-bellied farmers and milquetoast clerks! That wouldn't do at all. I know very well he's alright. It doesn't keep me from keeping an eye on him, watching his every motion.

For all I know, there is a risk of him losing what he is at this very moment, and those rippling muscles will be more than mere tools. I could sit inside, by the fire, and mend these clothes, but instead I settle in the courtyard in a sunny spot, sewing on buttons and stitching pockets back in place, pretending they're all his with love in every line of thread. He comes to check on me once, asks if I'm cold, tells me to go get a coffee if I get chilly, but I laugh and insist, “No, I'm perfectly happy here. It's a lovely day, you see. Did you want to go in for a bit?” He shrugs, reminds me that nobody's forcing me to do anything, and rejoins the laborers, and I keep my vigil over needle and thread. I must watch them, watch him, as best as I can. At least until I have no good excuse to stay in the same part of the temple as I can, within sprinting distance.

We come back together after lunch, as he crashes into a chair in the kitchen as I help with the washing up, broad shoulders slumped and face dragged down into a grimace. “Fuck, can we break out the whiskey yet? I'm fuckin' dyin'.”

“Goodness!” His exaggerations and excessive profanity are as charming as they always are; I grant him the dismissive giggle he's expecting in return. “I should hope not. And it's hardly two; perhaps you should wait until sundown to search out your contraband. This is still a Buddhist temple, remember?” He moans, and I dry my hands to pour him another glass of water. “Unless you'd like butter tea.” He makes a gagging noise, and I humor him with another giggle. Really, his brash attitude is endearing, or perhaps that's just Stockholm Syndrome from being around him so long. He takes the water with grumbled gratitude and gulps it down, licks his red, snow-stung lips, and exhales like he'd been holding his breath. He then starts to rub his own shoulder.

“So, how much longer we gotta wait before we just pile Sanzo into the Jeep and motor?” He circles the shoulder forward, then backward, grimacing as if he can smell kerosene. “Cause if I keep doin' this, I'm either gonna start lookin' like those bodybuilder guys in the magazines, or I'm gonna fall apart.”

Ah! An opening!

“I'll rub your shoulders, if you'd like.” I dry my hands before he has a chance to reject my offer, but he grins all the same.

“You're a godsend, man.” He sets his shoulders back, shakes his hair out, and I glimpse the mark on his shoulders again. I suppose this is a form of heavenly intervention, isn't it? If I don't intervene, Heaven just might.

His muscles are so very tense, and I wish I could wring every knot out of them. His skin is smooth, the scar tissue smoother, and there's so very, very much of that. I am soaked with guilt at the sensation of slick, healed and knit and healed over again flesh. I wish so dearly that I could keep another single scar from forming. Even the two on his face. I feel that I hate those the most; he received those or being what he was, and he doesn't deserve that. What he was- is- happens to be sweet and sincere, who wants everyone who crosses his path to like him until they walk away, and for him to expect them to walk away is the greatest wrong there is. I have the briefest sensation of a hand wrapped around my heart as my hands move up to the hollows in his neck, and my thumb just brushes over the creases on his cheek.

My poor, dear friend. I won't let anyone make a victim of you for being what you are ever again, if I have anything to do with it. Even if you are villain and victim in one. That monster inside you could hurt you as much as anyone else's words ever could.

My fingers trail up into his hair and scratch his scalp, and he moans in a way that would make the girls at the pubs blush. I admit it that the way he melts in front of me makes my face feel hot, but I imagine it's just the remaining heat from the oven. Goodness, do I hope so. I draw my fingers in little circles, ever outward, then stop behind his ears. He groans again, and yes, I am blushing now.

_Not now- he's your friend, for god's sake, he needs your help!_

I stop and crack my knuckles, guise enough to take the limiters out again, and move in for his ears again. That soft skin, so tender... I only hope this doesn't hurt. That really is the last thing I want. The very opposite. I open the clasp again, and hesitate.

He's so very content right now. He'll be cross the rest of the day- perhaps beyond- if I do this... but I must do this...

“Ahh, that's just what I needed.” He groans again, content, and gets up to his feet. “Thanks, man.” I shove the limiters away as he turns and faces me with that warm smile that's all Gojyo and so real and pure and everything my own facade is not. He sets a big, strong hand on my shoulder, squeezes, and oh, if I open my mouth now, I'm sure I'll make the same sound I elicited from him just minutes ago. He's gone, leaving a whiff of aftershave and his own musk, and I nearly collapse right there.

It never occurred to me that I could void our entire friendship in acting on this need of mine, that I run the risk of enraging him to a point that he could no longer be my friend, that he could give up on me and walk away from me. And you see, that is another self-serving need of mine- to keep my friend, just as he is, at my side.

I know very well that there are things I want that I simply can't have. I want him to have had a happy childhood and a pleasant life. I want him to have a family and a brother and a psychologically typical outlook on life. I want him to realize that he is loved and cherished by those around him, that none of us would willingly walk away from him, that he does not need to fear losing us, no matter what happens. That I will never leave him.

My love is a thing to be taken for granted- he has it, unrequited as it is and as it ever shall be, and I will never regret letting my dearest, most beloved companion take the crumpled, wrecked mess that is my heart as ornamentation for his front pocket. He need not give me his in return, and I will never ask for it. His heart is a prize, meant to be locked away and given only to the one who truly earns it. I just mean to protect it until the day comes when he loves himself enough to give it away. That day will not come soon, not while we're still so far from anything we could conceivably call home.

One way or another, I will get Gojyo- the Gojyo for whom I have come to care so deeply- home, whatever that home may be, in one piece.

The day rolls on, I change Sanzo's bandages again in Goku's wake- correctly, but with just enough error that Goku will still believe it to be his work- and Gojyo is chopping logs for firewood. If nothing else, it's a healthy release for his aggression. I have nowhere to put my frustration but into ever-growing mountains of laundry and a bushel of radishes that must be peeled, scrubbed, and sliced. My knife hits the cutting board in a droning rhythm, and I drive it into myself with each beat: _I must do this, I must, I must, I must_  as if putting it through my own mind enough will bring out a solution that is already there.

I must save him, but I cannot possibly tell him.

_I must I must I must_

There's only one way.

He's not an early sleeper, happier to extort the refugees out of what few worldly possessions they have left, but there's always something that needs to be done in the kitchen. The firelight is the only light visible and every surface is scrubbed clean, down to the floor, before he feigns a yawn and rises from the table, and swaggers to the doorway of the kitchen. “Hey, man, ain't you done workin' yet? You gotta be exhausted.” He smiles again, and I'm not sure what to make of it. Concern? Perhaps guilt. Perhaps he just wants me to be asleep before he is, giving him carte blanche to roam around and do god knows what...

“Oh, my, I suppose I must keep myself busy somehow.” I return his smile, the way I always do. “I'd rather keep myself busy than worry myself sick.”

“I get it.” His eyebrows shift, as if he wants to frown, but he's still wearing that sweet, catlike little smirk. “Well, whenever you wanna sleep, your bed'll be there. I'm gonna get a head start.”

He departs, with one last fleeting glance in my direction, and I entertain the notion that he's trying to tempt me to follow him, that he would very much rather I just come to bed. My, my, I never will understand that man. He seems so simple, but it's an act of deception through and through. It's easier to take him as he is, for what he is, because he seems so much happier with the simple him on the surface than with everything beneath.

The limiters feel heavy in my pocket.

The monastery's cracked and scratched dishes are as polished as they've ever been before I decide enough is enough, and I wonder if he wouldn't appreciate his porridge in bed tomorrow as I leave for our shared cell. If we're still friends at dawn's light, he'll deserve to be spoiled. This is my most disgusting plan yet, and I feel dirty at concocting it, but the harm I will prevent will so greatly outweigh that which I must commit against him. I don't know if I can forgive myself for being such a coward, but it's another weight I can carry. Sometimes, I wonder if I don't have a need to be so heavily burdened, to pile things onto myself, to take responsibility for those around me, and if this need is perhaps less than healthy. But if I don't, who will? Someone must, and if a sin must be committed... I am already a sinner, am I not?

The snow echoes the light of the stars, faint indigo in the colorless pall of the little cell. Hakuryu is asleep on the sill, curled close to the oiled paper, and I pluck him up like one would a cat and place him nearer to the warm embers left in the room's fire pit. I put another bit of kindling to revive it- can't let his toes get cold, can I?- and move for the bed. His bed.

He sleeps nude, and has for as long as I've known him, he pulls the sheets and covers up to his neck and smiles like a child into his pillow. I keep my touches as gentle as an ink brush as I move the curtain of his hair away from his ears, but he chuckles, mutters a 'not now, honey,' and rolls onto his back.

Taking advantage of my friend in his sleep. Such a monster I am.

I try to move his hair again, but can't access his ear anymore. Maybe a change of angle is called for, and I can only think of one thing.

I have to do this, don't you see, I must save him, I must help him, even if it means losing him, even if I can't stand to lose him, I'd rather taste the blood of another thousand youkai than watch him become one...

I'm at the end of his bed. I crawl up onto the mat, hands and knees crawling around and over his limbs set askew under the quilt, my chest so close to his that I'm certain that if my heart beats any harder, he'll feel it through my shirt. I hover over him, those smooth lips close, every jag in those scars visible. Directly above him, I can see his earlobe again.

Gojyo, I do this out of love.

I reach out to move the hair aside again, the palm planted on the mattress trembling and sending the tremors down the rest of my body.

I'm doing this because I have to.

“I'm so sorry.” My fingers touch his earlobe, and then, those red eyes are open wide, gleaming like garnets set in sandstone, and he's smiling again.

This may be the first time that smile has stopped me cold.

“You think I'm stupid, doncha?” My hand falls as his rises, and his warm, dry fingertips are on my cheek. “You think I don't notice things.”

“Gojyo, I'm sorry, I can explain-” I scramble for purchase, the limiters drop from my palm to the bedside table.

“Don't you dare.” He tilts his chin to catch the starlight just so, that roguish smirk enough to melt stone but not enough to ease my racing heart. “I ain't dumb.”

“I know you're not, but-”

“You're worried about me.” He rubs my cheek so tenderly. I want to enjoy this, but my mind and body aren't communicating anymore. I can't move, I can't speak, all I can do is tremble and watch his lips move. “Bein' all nice, cuttin' my hair, rubbin' my back... After all that happened with Sanzo, you think you're gonna lose me.”

“G-gojyo.”

“Hakkai.” He moves the caress from my cheek to the corner where my jawbone and ear meet, and his free hand has snaked its way up to the small of my back. “I ain't goin' anywhere. I ain't gonna die. You know why?” My mouth works, trying to make words, trying to protest, but that expression, the heat and light in his eyes... the fire may as well have gone out behind me, because he is fire, and in this moment, I can't even imagine the cold. He chuckles; he knows I can't answer. He knows me so well... “Hakkai, I ain't goin' to die, because I know you won't let me. Just the same, I won't let you go either.”

And just like that, I am consumed in a blaze. Fingers, lips, tongue so hot, my clothes are seared from me, my body swallowed into the licking tendrils of a roaring blaze, and god, I can only see red.

I open my eyes much later. It's dawn again, my bed is still made up, and I'm tucked in, quilt up to my chin. There is no sign of Hakuryu, Gojyo's clothes are gone, and the bathrobe too. I turn the quilt down, all too hot, and run a hand through my hair, still slick from the sweat of the night before. My body aches, but it brings a smile to my face to feel it. It brings some of his warmth back. I can see a glass of water beside my monocle on the table between the beds, and know that Gojyo left it for me. Returning my kindness, I suppose. I reach for it, and my fingers land on the limiters.

Oh.

_Oh dear._

Damn! I should have roused myself from my satiated sleep to finish the job, should have kept my wits about me. How did I let him overwhelm me so?!

Oh, why do I bother to ask? I know what it is. I'm stitched into his front pocket, he can keep me there and do whatever he likes with me, and I'm happy to beat him in the right direction every so often and let him have the credit. I close my fingers around the limiters and squeeze til I can feel them imprinting the skin; it hurts, bruises, stings, and I don't care. How rotten I am...

But... last night... he...

He was so...

He was more than I could have ever dreamed of. More than I could ever ask for. I know my heart is a small prize to take, but he took it with a smile. He whispered in my ear, told me how much he needed me, how wonderful I was, how I wonderful I felt, told me that I didn't have to worry about anything, and I drank it all in like the narcissist I truly am. He doesn't see the ugly beast I am underneath, the wanton, soulless husk that never held anything worthwhile but him. He treated me like a gentleman, even though he made it clear that he would never take another gentleman to bed. My kindness meant enough to him that he broke down and did it. For me. With me. Because I am me, and I am his. And here I am, trapped in my own mind, wondering...

Would he... were he not a demon... if he didn't have such sharp instincts, and such primal urges to fulfill... would he have...?

Will he ever... again...?

I pocket the limiters. I could use a spare set anyway.

How selfish a creature I am.


End file.
